


Lucky

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:12:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9061930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: Grif and Simmons are enjoying some rare time alone when Grif lets something slip.





	

When Sarge asked what they were doing in the shade for two hours, Grif answered in his usual, flippant manner: “Well I can tell you what we  _ weren’t  _ doing.”

They definitely weren’t shucking their armor to enjoy the slight, yet noticeable, drop in temperature the shade provided.

"How can it be so goddamn hot during the day, and freezing at night?" Grif had complained.

They definitely weren’t relaxing in the shadow of the Jeep, shooting the shit, talking about the future. About  _ after _ .

"Do we go back? To Earth, I mean?" Simmons had asked. 

Grif, who would have gone anywhere with Simmons provided it wasn't a fucking box canyon, had replied, "Earth is so unoriginal. I say we go to the Vegas Quadrant."

" _ NO. _ "

They definitely weren’t lying side by side, Grif’s bronze-skinned arm resting against Simmons’s silver one.

See, that was all he wanted—to lounge around, preferably with Simmons, as far away from this godforsaken war as possible. Seeing as they were in the future, Grif had no idea if the war was still going on. Probably not, but who was around to say otherwise? Did it matter? As long as the Blues—and Doc/O’Malley—existed, Sarge was not about to let them leave. 

Not that anyone was holding Grif hostage; he could have left long ago. But he was still here. Don't fucking ask him why, he didn't know why either. And trying to figure it out did not do wonders for his crippling anxiety. He had a facade of aloofness to maintain, after all.

Grif talked a tough game—or maybe thought, talking took a lot of effort—but he wanted a life that went somewhere, a life that meant something. He would never openly admit this. Well, he would never admit this to Sarge or Donut, though Donut was all about that “sharing your feelings” crap. And when he first met Dick Simmons in basic training in Danger Canyon, he never thought he’d admit it to the bumbling maroon soldier either. Not in a million years. Oh, and he never,  _ ever _ would have believed it if someone had told him this maroon soldier, not a lifetime supply of pizza on a deserted island back on Earth, would turn out to be what gave his life meaning. Not in a billion fucking years. Dexter Grif was not about that sappy shit.

But along came Dick fucking Simmons, and Grif was suddenly  _ all  _ about that sappy shit. Inside, anyway—he still hadn’t gotten around to saying  _ out loud _ how he felt. That was a bit too drastic for him.

It was moments like these, these brief moments alone with Simmons, that kept Grif going. Finding alone time when Sarge was constantly on their asses—well, on Grif’s ass, mostly—was next to impossible. Not to mention Donut flitting about, sprucing up the base, everywhere at once. So when Sarge sent them out on patrol, they jumped at the chance, their complaints only half-hearted.

The problem with downtime, and yes, there  _ were  _ downsides to being lazy, was that there was more time to think. And while being with Simmons meant he didn’t have to be alone with his thoughts, it did not mean the thoughts were always filled with sappy hopes and dreams for the future. 

Grif hoped his sister Kai, existing somewhere in the past, had found someone or something that kept her going. Sure, she was a fucking pain in the ass, but that didn’t mean she didn’t deserve happiness. He felt guilty, then, because he had left her behind, and now that he’d been sent forward into the future, he would never go back. 

Sighing, Grif shook his head to clear it of such depressing thoughts. Kai was a big girl, she could take care of herself. Maybe. She was pretty dumb.

“What’s up?” Simmons turned to look at him, glasses crooked on his half-freckled, half-metal face.

God, this war was all kinds of fucked up, Grif thought.

Sometimes he forgot he was, like, 57% Simmons.

That was kind of a lie. Grif was never going to forget how much it hurt when that fucking tank plowed into the jeep that rolled over  _ him _ . He’d never forget waking up and feeling simultaneously broken and whole. And was never  _ ever  _ going to forget that first night in the barracks with Simmons “2.0”. Grif had not thought the maroon soldier would ever go to sleep—and he knew he was a goner when he actually  _ gave up sleep _ to make sure Simmons got some.

“Dude, what’s up?” Simmons repeated, bringing Grif back to the present.

“Huh?” Grif had spaced off again, something he was prone to do while sprawled out in the shade. Or in the sun. Or standing up. Or when Sarge was lecturing him on his inability to pay attention. It was an art, really. “Uh, nothing. I  _ was  _ sleeping, but  _ someone  _ interrupted me.” 

“Oh, please,” Simmons said, “Like anyone could wake you up against your will.”

“What can I say, your voice isn’t exactly lullaby quality,” Grif retorted. 

What Grif wanted to say was “You’re not ‘ _ anyone _ ’.” But he didn’t. It was easier to be a shit than to be serious.

Simmons huffed and they laid in silence for a few minutes.

Grif wondered why he never told Simmons about Kai. He wasn’t hiding her, or anything, he’d just never felt the need to mention her. To be fair, he didn’t know too much about Simmons’s life before the war either. Not that it mattered. The orange soldier figured it was pointless to dredge up the past.

Then again, most things were pointless to Grif. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. No. Grif cared a great deal about many things. It was that it took too much effort to do anything about them. It was pointless to try, because in his experience, trying only led to disappointment, failure, or both.

One thing that was  _ not  _ pointless to Dexter Grif, however, was whatever this  _ thing  _ was he had with Dick Simmons.

They sat there, side by side, for a few more minutes. 

“We should probably get back,” Simmons sighed, breaking the silence. He rose to his feet. The sun caught in his hair, turning its normally dull, orange color into a fiery reddish-gold.

It was fucking beautiful, and Grif almost— _ almost— _ said so. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, groaning in protest.

In silence they donned their armor.

“It’s like stepping into a goddamn oven,” Grif whined.

“Speak for yourself,” Simmons said, “ _ I  _ didn’t damage my cooling function.”

"Hey!" Grif protested, feigning hurt. "I can't help that I sweat a lot, it's a condition."

"What condition would that be, exactly?" Simmons demanded. They hopped into the Jeep, Grif in the driver's seat and Simmons manning the turret. 

"You wouldn't know it," Grif said, waving a dismissive hand. He went to start the Jeep. 

Nothing happened. The thing didn't even sputter.

Grif and Simmons ogled the control panel. its usual beeping and blinking lights were silent and dark. 

"What did you do?" Simmons cried.

"Me?" Grif let go of the wheel like it had burned him. "Nothing! You're the one who drove it here."

"Bullshit, I never drive," Simmons argued. He was right, but that did not deter Grif.

"Dude, are you sure your memory function wasn't damaged when you became a cyborg? Because you definitely drove here."

"What?" Simmons jumped off the Jeep. "Shut up! My memory works fine, you're just fucking with me!" 

"Maybe we should have Sarge take a look at you when we get back, see if he can do anything to retrieve your tragically repressed memories," Grif continued, ignoring the maroon soldier.

"I don't have any repressed memories!" Simmons insisted. He sounded panicked, uncertain. "And you  _ always  _ drive." 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Simmons," Grif conceded. Grif had, of course, been the one to drive. It had also been his idea to reenact that awesome scene from  _ Dukes of Hazard _ , landing them in the ditch... but they  _ had  _ driven the Jeep after that and parked it next to the rock for the remainder of their patrol. And Simmons had picked this spot. So, Grif concluded, it was definitely all Simmons's fault.

"Oh, man," Simmons moaned. "What're we gonna tell Sarge?"

"What do you mean, 'we'?" Grif asked, only half-kidding. "Like Sarge needs another reason to kill me."

"Sarge is gonna be so pissed," Simmons babbled on. "He gave us an important mission and we fucked it up!"

"Relax, what's the worst he can do, make Donut second in command?"

"Eep!" Simmons squeaked. He began to pace, hands fidgeting at top speed. Grif leaned against the dead Jeep. This would be a perfect time to pull out those popcorn balls he had packed...

But Grif, seeing the maroon soldier become more and more agitated, figured he'd teased the poor guy enough. And no, it definitely was  _ not  _ because he felt guilty about toying with Simmons's anxiety. It definitely was  _ not  _ because Grif knew he would take a bullet for the guy (so why not take this one?). Nah, he just wanted to get back and nap. That was all. 

"Oh, quit it, Simmons, I'll talk to Sarge," Grif said. Simmons halted in his frantic pacing and turned to face the orange soldier. Grif couldn't see his face, but he knew the expression-- half astonishment, half relief-- behind the visor well. “He’s going to find a way to blame me anyway.”

"Seriously?" Simmons sounded skeptical, and rightfully so. Grif wasn't one for "talking to Sarge". It took too much effort to argue with the man, unless the conversation would a) put off manual labor and/or b) piss Sarge off enough to where the red soldier would dismiss him in disgust

"Seriously," Grif said. "I mean, the worst he could do is actually kill me, and we both know it's only a matter of time."

"Come on, he's not gonna  _ kill  _ you," Simmons sighed. 

"He just might if I have to sit through another of his lectures," Grif said. "But we both know I excel at sleeping standing up, so maybe I can avoid the sweet, sweet release of death for one more day."

"You know, if you put as much work into actually doing something as you did into doing nothing, you'd probably have been promoted by now," Simmons pointed out. "Then you wouldn't have to listen to Sarge."

They began to march toward their temporary base, where Sarge would be waiting for news of their patrol.

"I feel like a promotion is irrelevant, being in the future and all," Grif said.

What he didn't say was that a promotion might mean his assignment would change, and he could not fathom leaving-- as much as he hated this goddamn place. If he left, that would mean leaving Simmons behind. And he wasn't going anywhere without that kiss ass. 

"I suppose you're right," Simmons sighed.

They walked the remainder of the distance in silence. Just before they approached Sarge, who was busy (as per-frickin'-usual) polishing his shotgun, Simmons stopped walking and turned to face Grif. 

"What?" Grif asked. He really wanted to get this conversation over with: there was a bedroll with his name on it. 

"Um," Simmons began. He paused, fidgeted with his pistol, and went on. "Thanks. You know. For talking to Sarge."

"Hey man, don't be so hasty, I haven't talked to him yet. Maybe I'm still gonna throw you under the bus," Grif taunted. 

Simmons sighed and Grif could practically hear his eyes roll. 

"Just. Thanks anyway. Or whatever."

"Yeah, yeah," Grif said with a dismissive flap of his arm. "You're lucky I love you, man."

Silence.

One beat. Two beats. Three.

Shit.

It hit Grif then, the gravity of what he'd just said. It had just slipped out. A joke, but not really. And now he and Simmons were having the most awkward stare down ever.

After what felt like a century of tension, Simmons said. "Yeah. Lucky."

" _ Oh, look _ ," Grif almost shouted, " _ there's Sarge. _ "

The conversation with Sarge went about as well as Grif thought it would. He and Simmons were great actors, and Sarge was so flustered he only growled before asking to be shown to the Jeep. What Grif had  _ not  _ expected was Sarge's easy dismissal of Grif's half-assed excuses.

What  _ had  _ they been doing parked in the shade for two hours?

Grif was not about to give a straight answer, and Sarge, intent on getting the Jeep out of the shade and into the sun, did not press the issue.

Simmons was too relieved to notice, but Grif knew that Sarge knew. And Sarge knew that Grif knew that Sarge knew, and that Simmons  _ didn't  _ know that Sarge knew or that Grif knew that Sarge knew.

Jesus, Grif was starting to get a headache from all this thinking. Was it possible to sleep and drive?

____

Later, as the two soldiers wriggled out of their armor, Grif wondered what Simmons's reaction would be if he put his bedroll next to the maroon soldier's. So he did it.

"What're you doing?!" Simmons exclaimed. "What about Sarge and-and Donut?"

"Obviously, I'm sleeping closer to the fire. It's fucking cold." Grif replied. "Secondly, don't worry about Donut and Sarge. Donut's got first watch and Sarge may or may not be investigating an evil plot concocted by the Blues."

"What fire?" Simmons asked, baffled. "There's no fucking fire." 

"Oh, you're right, that's your hair. My bad."

"Sarge is going to be pissed when he realizes you lied, and he'll come back and he'll find us," Simmons said. "This is a bad idea."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Grif insisted, flopping onto his bedroll. "I just know I'll sleep comfortably knowing that Sarge is out battling those dirty, scheming Blues."

"Ugh, fine!" Simmons huffed, lying down next to Grif. "You're lucky I love you, man."

Grif about shit himself. For the second time that day, he was ready to die. Cause of death: heart attack. Or maybe he just needed a cigarette. Simmons had made him quit after the surgery, so he hadn’t had one in what felt like an eternity. Yeah, it was probably (not) withdrawal. 

He thought of all the things he could say, the comments that would get Simmons all worked up, the jokes that would hide just how over the fucking moon he was... he could even pretend to be asleep.

Instead, he said, "Yeah. Lucky."

 


End file.
